The Colours of Sunflowers
by ScarlettAngel2
Summary: A series of one-shots following on the events of The Promise of Sunflowers. More info inside.
1. Introduction

Hello, and welcome to The Colours of Sunflowers!

As it says in the summary, this is going to be a series of one-shots. For those who haven't read The Promise of Sunflowers yet, I suggest you do that first. It isn't absolutely necessary, but will clear out the relationships and some behaviour and stuff.

These one-shots will contain comedy, some history, a lot of fluff, and so on. No smutt, as I would like to keep it a T-rating.

Alongside the main pairing of America x Russia, there will also be France x England and Canada x Prussia (among others).

I'll upload whenever I finish another one-shot, so there won't be any schedule or anything. This is basically just for those of you who can't get enough of all these lovely dorks (as sasanura13 so eloquently called them ;).

Without further ado, enjoy!

**Table of Contents**

1. _Light My Heart_: Russia decides to give his America a rather unorthodox present on Valentine's Day.

2. _Mon petit nuage de pluie_: France visits England and gets served a soufflé. But if it is made with love, how can he refuse?

3. _Touch_: America observes his lover lying in the sun, and thinks about their past encounters.

4. _What haunts me_: Russia wakes up from a nightmare and talks about his worries for the future.

5. _Toy Soldiers_: Russia discovers America's storage room, and America doesn't deal well with the memories it reignites.

6. _You called?_: America gets drunk, and England still hasn't perfected his demon summoning skills.

7. _Dear Diary_: Read Prussia's journal as he spends the day with his Canadian sweetheart.


	2. Light My Heart

Light My Heart

**Warning: deadly amount of fluff.**

xoxox

"Happy Valentine's Day, dorogoy moy!"

"Oh thanks big gu- OH MY GOD!"

Bright blue spheres widened in pure horror as they stared at the display in front of them. The tall nation had his violet eyes closed and sported a childishly happy smile on his round – and very cute – face. His snowy ashen blond bangs fell neatly to the side, his chin was tucked nicely into his ever-present scarf, his grey trench coat was hanging open, boots a bit muddy perhaps, and his arms were stretched in front of him.

And in those gloved palms lay a heart. A real, beating, bloody heart.

America could only blink as he continued to stare dumbly at this puzzling development.

He had invited the tall nation over for the weekend to his house in Boston, Massachusetts. Hence the Russian being here. Nothing wrong with that. It was also Valentine's Day, America had to give him that.

BUT WHY THE HELL WAS RUSSIA HOLDING A HEART IN HIS HANDS?

His own heart for that matter; America could now see the gaping hole in his uncovered chest.

The sunny blond carefully set down his bag of take-away Chinese food and folded his arms behind his back, trying to put on a professional attitude.

"Ivan. Can I ask you a question?"

Russia opened his eyes, curiously tilting his head to the side.

"Of course sunflower! What is it?"

America blushed only a little at being called a sunflower (he was still getting used to the abundant amount of nicknames the Russian thought up for him). Afterwards he cleared his throat and made a tiny nod of the head at the organ.

"Why exactly do you want to give me- You know, give me your heart?"

Russia's smiled widened.

"But is that not what everyone does? Give your heart to a loved one? I am most certain I have heard that plenty of times. Or was it steal your heart? I do not know if I would like anyone stealing my heart, but I suppose if it were you…"

"Wait, wait, wait. You know that's just a saying right?"

Russia's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. His arms dropped a bit, holding the heart closer to his chest now.

"Do you mean you do not want it?"

America immediately shot forward and laid a hand on his lover's shoulder.

"No no no, that's not what I'm saying at all! It's just that, when they say 'give your heart to someone', they don't mean it literal! That's all!"

Russia ducked his face into his scarf, only his oversized nose peeking over it.

"So you are rejecting it… Never mind, it was silly of me. I did not want to do something romantic for Valentine's Day or anything…"

The younger nation groaned in exasperation. Russia could be surprisingly touchy-feely when it came to things like this. As if he was still uncertain America truly loved him.

"Don't be that way dude, I'm only trying to explain here. Of course I want your heart, just not the real thing. Your metaphorical heart, or something like that. I mean, normal people wouldn't even be able to pull that off! They'd die without a heart! So tell me Vanya, how could all those lovers give each other their heart without dying?"

Russia carefully rolled the organ around in his hands, sullenly staring at the ground.

"Maybe that is why Romeo and Juliet died so soon?"

America felt like face-palming, but also wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He also was a lot less grossed out than he probably should be, but maybe being with Russia did such things to you.

"I'm pretty sure they died from poison and stabbing themselves with knives, if Iggy told me the right story."

The Russian glanced back at him.

"Do you have any arsenic, perhaps?"

"NO! I don't mean you should kill yourself for me, dear God no! I'm just saying that I don't need your real heart, because I already have you metaphorical one!"

His mouth suddenly snapped shut and red coloured his ears when he realized he was being more than a little corny. Russia was smiling again, shyly lifting his face from its scarfy life-belt.

"You do? When did I give it to you?"

America swallowed, deciding that if he was going to be corny anyway, he might as well do it right. The nation planted a firm kiss on the tip of the other's big nose, grinning cockily when those pale cheeks grew a light pink.

"When you realized you love me of course, you big doofus."

Russia's smile reached its maximum level as he bent over and captured America's lips. It was a short but excellent kiss, as the Russian felt that familiar fluttering. Only, it was not inside his chest now, rather in his hands.

Russia broke the kiss all too soon to look down at his heart, which was beating noticeably faster now.

"So, if you do not want this heart, what should I do with it?"

"Put it back of course!" America yelled, eyebrows shooting up.

Russia giggled at the astonished look on his face.

"I suppose so. I do not think staying out like that is very good for it, it feels weird."

"Weird?" America asked after recovering from his momentary shock.

Russia nodded. "Da. Tingly. And… Weird."

"Put it back then! We don't want to damage your heart!"

Russia smiled at him.

"But that is impossible, da? Since I already gave it to you!"

He chuckled light-heartedly when America sputtered incomprehensibly.

"Will you take good care of it?" he asked, suddenly growing serious.

America's mouth flapped open and close, very much resembling a fish's, before he regained his composure.

The smaller nation had a sudden moment of clarity. He boldly leant forward and placed a feathery kiss on top of the vital organ. Russia immediately grew silent, the heart speeding up even more. America grinned up at him, quite satisfied to see those amethysts staring at him, dumbfounded and amazed.

The blond placed both hands over Russia's larger ones, folding their combined fingers over his heart. He then guided them towards the hole in Russia's chest, carefully pushing the heart back into its house. Russia remained completely quiet, feeling wonder and awe wash over him at the loving actions. America didn't seem to be the least bit spooked at having kissed a beating heart.

"There you go big guy," America said once the hole closed on its own accord. "That's better, isn't it?"

Russia was still frozen on the spot. America flashed a big toothpaste commercial grin, bringing a hand to the other's face to brush away some astray platinum locks.

"I know it's your heart I've just given you, but you got mine too, right? The metaphorical one."

Russia blushed harder than he ever had before, placing a hand over the one resting on his cheek and holding it there.

"Spasiba, Alfred."

Another kiss was placed on his thin lips.

"Happy Valentine's, Vanya."


	3. Mon petit nuage de pluie

Mon petit nuage de pluie  
><span>(My little cloud of rain)<span>

France whistled as he skidded along the pavement. He winked at a pretty girl, but didn't stop to flirt with her. Flirting was a big no-no now that he was finally in a real relationship with his stubborn Englishman.

Ah, Angleterre~

Ever since that day when England came to him, he felt like living on Cloud Nine. The food tasted better, he could at long last enjoy his wine again, he even began preferring the rain over the sun. Thoughts of his loved-one helped him through meetings and his paperwork, and the sex was in a word: divine.

True, England hadn't confessed his love yet. But France could wait. They were in a relationship now, so no one would steal the Brit away from him while he took the time figuring out his feelings. France was absolutely certain a confession was bound to come someday. England wouldn't stay with him if he didn't love him.

A strange smell suddenly pulled him out of his daydreams. France glanced around, finding himself almost at England's house. And for some reason, there were thick, black clouds of smoke pouring out of the windows.

France's heart skipped a beat and he immediately began running. He frantically fiddled with the lock on the front door and burst through the hallway as soon as it opened.

"Angleterre! Arthur, mon amour, are you all ri-"

France stopped dead in his tracks when he reached his destination.

His lover was standing in the centre of the kitchen, face black with ash and clothes filthy, hair peeking into every single direction, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, and he was stirring madly in a bowl of- of…

What on earth was that?!

"Arthur? What are you doing?"

England looked up at the mention of his name, seemingly surprised to see someone standing there.

"Oh sorry, didn't hear you come in." He then proudly held the bowl up to France. "I wanted to make us some dinner. But not because I knew you were coming or something! No, I just felt like cooking today."

France blinked and peered at the bowl. There was some sort of brownish sludge in there, that looked like it was about to turn to stone.

"Um… Mind me asking what exactly you are trying to make?"

England huffed and stirred some more, having difficulty in dragging his wooden spoon through the inedible mess.

"Can't you tell? I'm making dough for a soufflé!"

France had wanted to say something to tease the Brit about his horrific cooking skills, but all possible insults died on his tongue after those words.

Despite how horrible it looked, France was touched. Because his boyfriend was trying to cook something from his cuisine. It was one of the cutest things England had ever done for him. Therefore, he simply couldn't joke around.

France grinned widely, happy to see that adorable combination of a blush and a scowl on the other's face.

"Ah, mon lapin. If it is soufflé you are making, then why not let me help?"

Both blush and frown deepened.

"I can do it myself, thank you. I'm the one making dinner tonight. Now shoo, out of the kitchen with you. Go make yourself useful and open up a bottle of wine or something."

The blue-eyed nation wanted to protest, but didn't want to hurt England's feelings either. So he simply surrendered and went back to the living room. Surely one night of eating England's food wouldn't kill him, right?

Right?

xoxox

France was trying really hard not to run away whilst screaming like a little girl.

His sense of smell had died a little while ago, and his sight was destined to follow if he kept looking at that abomination lying on a plate in front of him. This was exactly the reason why France always made dinner whenever he dropped by.

England was staring him down, mentally demanding him to take the first bite. His own soufflé was already halfway finished, him being used to burnt and tasteless food (well duh, he made it).

"Well? Aren't you going to have a taste?" the Brit asked. His voice wavered a little at the end, as if suddenly unsure of his own cooking talents (not that he had any).

France forced a smile upon his face and bravely took hold of his fork.

"I must say that I am not that hungry tonight, so I probably won't finish it."

England nodded, but still kept staring intensely.

"That's all right. But you can at least have a taste right? I would like to know if it's good."

France swallowed heavily and looked back at the so-called 'soufflé.' It really did resemble a rock now.

'_Here goes nothing…'_

The fork went down (not without difficulty), and he successfully cut off a tiny piece. Without giving himself the time to have second thoughts, the fork disappeared into his mouth. He only took two seconds to chew, before swallowing.

That was officially the grossest thing he had ever eaten.

"Well?" England asked.

He had the most hopeful look France had ever seen on his face. So, despite having his taste buds screaming in agony, the nation smiled and nodded.

"Yes, quite good mon coeur! It is indeed a 'successful' soufflé!"

England lit up for the briefest of moments, very much resembling a puppy with the way his smile grew and eyes brightened, before turning back to his usual self.

"Of course it's a successful soufflé. What were you expecting? For me to poison you?"

"Hahaha… Of course not," France laughed, gulping and looking guiltily to the side.

The rest of the meal was spent with him dumping bits of soufflé in the fish bowl, vowing to himself he would buy his beloved a new goldfish after this.

"Would you like some dessert? I still have a couple of scones," England said while putting their plates away, satisfied to see France's almost completely empty.

The blue-eyed nation purred suggestively at his words.

"Ah, mon Angleterre, I would love some dessert. But instead of scones, how about you undress and I get some whipped cream and strawberries?"

England instantly flushed red and almost dropped the plates.

"What are you saying, you dirty frog!" he growled, green eyes flashing dangerously and cheeks a nice crimson red.

The Frenchman snuck up to him and laid an arm around his waist, reeling him in.

"Is that not why you always invite me for the weekend, you naughty boy?"

He ignored the Brit's incomprehensible spluttering and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. England struggled at first, but soon enough he felt the other melting into the kiss. After a few moments of heated making-out he broke away to smirk against the other's lips.

"Now shall I go get the whipped cream?"

As soon as England caught his breath, he smirked too.

"You're sleeping on the couch tonight."

xoxox

France cautiously pushed against the door, flinching when it creaked a little. He glanced inside the room, relieved to find England fast asleep. He shut the door behind him and tip-toed over to the bed.

This certainly wasn't the first time France had been banned to the couch for the night. But is also wasn't the first time he simply ignored such banishment and snuck into England's bedroom afterwards. England could get quite cranky about that, but France had his ways to convince the Englishman to let him sleep in his bed. True, England would be even more pissed in the mornings after such events, but for France, it was all worth it.

The perverted nation curled his fingers and was ready to pounce his lover, ready for some thorough punishment. However, a sudden movement made him pause.

England rolled around in his bed so that he now faced France, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight. His hand roamed about the empty space next to him, and a light frown adorned his sleeping features.

"Francis…" came his muttered voice, body shifting restlessly.

France's heart made a pang. He lost his predatory stance and quickly closed the distance between his figure and the bed. The Frenchman gently pried the blankets from the other's clinging fingers and lay down next to him, instantly pulling the blond close to his chest.

England shifted a bit more in his slumber, the searching hand finding its way to France's stomach and resting there, seemingly comforted by the feeling of touch. The nation mumbled a bit more, breathed out a content sigh, and grew peaceful once again. The frown left his face and he nuzzled against France's torso.

The Frenchman smiled as he caressed England's messy locks. No sneak-attacks tonight. His Angleterre needed gentleness and love this evening, things France was more than willing to share with him.

"Mon Angleterre. Je te souhaite des rêves beaux et joyeux. Je t'adore, mon trésor. Je t'aime. Je veux que tu sois heureux avec moi, mais je ne veux pas te forcer. Tu es mon cœur, ma seule raison d'être. J'espère qu'un jour, tu te sentiras le même. Bonne nuit, mon ange."

And with that he pressed a loving kiss to his lover's scalp, after which he went to sleep himself.

Little did he know that England had heard every single thing he just said, and that he understood it all perfectly (England had always understood French, he just didn't feel like letting anyone know).

And perhaps, maybe, he felt the same.

xoxox

Words:

Angleterre: England  
>Mon amour: My love<br>Mon lapin: My bunny  
>Mon coeur: My heart<p>

Mon Angleterre. Je te souhaite des rêves beaux et joyeux. Je t'adore, mon trésor. Je t'aime. Je veux que tu sois heureux avec moi, mais je ne veux pas te forcer. Tu es mon cœur, ma seule raison d'être. J'espère qu'un jour, tu te sentiras le même. Bonne nuit, mon ange.

Translation:

My England. I wish you beautiful and happy dreams. I adore you, my treasure. I love you. I want you to be happy with me, but I don't want to force you. You are my heart, my only reason of living. I hope that one day, you will feel the same. Goodnight, my angel.


	4. Touch

Touch

**I added a table of contents to the introduction.**

xoxox

His body truly looked beautiful in the sunlight.

With a snowy background, he was like a creature of ice. A spirit of winter. With his pale skin and snowy bangs, his violet spheres shining in the eye of his personal little snowstorm. Scarf flying up in the wind, boots leaving deep footprints. That was Russia.

But in the sun he was so much more. His platinum locks suddenly turned golden, illuminating the blond and setting the silver alight. His skin warmed up, a healthy blush colouring his face. The gloves taken off from his fine fingers, scarf no longer ominous but delicately concealing his neck. Those long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, dark grey at the base, but pure white at the tips. A faint pink at the very top of his nose, making it irresistibly kissable.

America loved watching his boyfriend whilst bathing in the sun. Especially when said boyfriend was taking a nap, so he couldn't notice his incessant staring.

America re-adjusted Texas on the bridge of his nose and crawled closer. His loved-one had fallen asleep in the meadow they were visiting, lying comfortably between bright green grass and scattered daisies. A book was lying on his torso, chest slowly rising and falling with his lazy breaths. His hair was a bit messy.

America carefully reached out to tuck those bangs behind his ears. Russia didn't move. The sunny blond boldly crept closer so that he could touch the other.

An index finger slid up from his ear, following the line of his eyebrow and down his nose. A feathery touch along his cheekbone, and back down to his lips. Thin lips, yet surprisingly soft and warm.

The nation took one hand in his own and followed the blue veins on his wrist, dipped down at his palm, and patted the soft cushions beneath his fingers. The digits were a little rough due to all the manual labour he had done, but were slender due to his being big-boned. Russia really was big-boned; for him it wasn't just some excuse to hide that he had gained a little weight over the years. America would know, being his lover.

He gently played with the little platinum hairs on his arm, quickly stopping when the sleeping nation twitched. America's eyes shot to the other's face, but he was still fast asleep.

He cautiously unbuttoned the shirt, glancing up to make sure Russia was still asleep. Not that he would be embarrassed or anything, he just wanted to take his time.

A pale yet sturdy chest was revealed. His thumb caressed an old scar cutting straight through the skin over his heart. He then followed the contours of his ribs, showing slightly on his lying figure. A few more cuts and bruises, a rather fresh scar that resembled the fall of the USSR.

America knew that one all too well. He had been there when it happened, ready to proclaim himself the victor over communism. Only, when seeing Russia in such pain and agony, all gloating immediately died on his tongue. Maybe that was the first time America had felt sorry for him since the start of the Cold War. The first step to restoring the companionship they had before that(1). Only, it had grown into so much more when they finally did get to it.

America never truly hated Russia. Other feelings, yes. Like annoyance, suspicion, confusion about his true motifs, some basic paranoia, a playful antagonism. But America wasn't the type to hate someone with all his might, especially someone he looked up to. True, where there were heroes, there were bound to be villains. That didn't mean America wanted to create new villains. No, he was much more set on gaining friends.

The blond could vividly recall every single time he had met the Russian.

Like that first time, back when he was still a colony. It had only been a very brief meeting, a simple "hello" and "goodbye," the Russian wanting to meet this country that was said to be living in the New World.

America's childish eyes thought the Russian to be a giant back then. With that enormous body that just kept going on and on, without any sign of stopping soon. Those violet eyes had instantly intrigued him. They looked so unreal, like one of the mythical beings England kept telling him about.

"Are you an angel?" little America had asked.

And the giant blushed, a faint pink dusting his pale cheeks, a light smile showing from beneath his scarf.

"Nyet, little one. I am simply Mother Russia."

After that he left, curiosity momentarily satisfied.

The second meeting could count as their first real meeting, as they really got to talk for a bit then. America had grown a lot since the first meeting, but Russia still resembled a giant.

He had been fighting for independence from England back then, and was more than a little worn-out by the war. Still, when that strange country came visiting again, he straightened his back and proudly held his head up high, standing between his man like a proud soldier. Russia had walked straight up to him, as if recognizing the child for who he had grown up to be.

"Amerika. It is good to see you again, da?" the tall nation then said, dropping a heavy hand on top of his head.

America didn't move a muscle, knowing it would be weak to back away. Despite his constant exhaustion, he had to show strength now. The Russians were aiding him in this war, so he couldn't show disrespect by cowering away.

Russia had smiled that creepy little smile that America later came to know as his trademark (and much later as the fake smile, the one he used as an automatic shield).

"Very good, little one. You are different from the others, da? A fighter, I think they call it. But can you fight long enough to survive?"

And America had puffed out his chest, eyes flashing fierce electricity.

"Yes, I can. I'll show you. I'll show them all."

A low chuckle, while those eyes intensely studied his figure.

"Very well then. We shall see what the future has in store for you, little Amerika."

And America kept his word. He did show Russia what he was made of. And it was only after gaining independence that the Russian began treating him as an equal. Not friends, not family, not lovers, but something else. While everyone else was too afraid of the Russian to come near him, America was still intrigued. He wanted to know more about this strange man, with his odd behaviour and creepy exterior. And he began respecting what he found.

He didn't always trust the Russian, knowing he could be unpredictable at times. But he certainly wasn't afraid of him. Not when he could already lift buffaloes as a child.

Perhaps the only reason that America hadn't fallen for him sooner, was because Russia always had this invisible wall around him. Wanting to make friends, but unwilling to show his true emotions. Too broken to make himself vulnerable, too believing of what everyone thought of him. Thinking he really was a monster, thinking no one could ever understand his pain, or that they would laugh at him and mock him if they knew. Afraid to show his real self, hiding behind violence and a smile.

But then Russia came to him, finally requesting to be friends. Finally allowing a peek over that barrier. And what America saw there had made him fall head over heels.

There was so much love in that big heart of his. So much tenderness.

And now he had it all for himself.

A soft hum reached his ears. America looked up and saw those (beautiful) amethysts flutter open. They almost instinctively shot to him, seeking his bright blue eyes in the sea of green. Those thin lips sliding up into a smile, a real one, one that made America's heart dance at a funny rhythm.

"Izvinite, Fredka. Did I fall asleep?"

He slowly stretched his muscles, yawning like a cat. America couldn't help himself when he slid forward and sprawled his body over the other's chest, nuzzling against his shoulder and possessively sliding his hands under the other's armpits and over his shoulders.

"…Fredka? Why is my shirt open?"

America grinned lazily, before pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

"Mine," he sighed.

Another kiss on his sternum.

"Mine."

A kiss on his heart. Then he looked up, feeling warm and dazy, as if intoxicated by the sun.

"Mine."

His hand roamed the unclothed chest, savouring the feel of it. Not in a sexual way, simply a desire to be close to him.

Big hands held his body closer, the Russian trying to sit up and pull the other into his lap. But America gently pushed him back down, before moving up to his face.

A kiss on his earlobe. One on his jawline. Another in the dip next to his nose. Two kisses on each eyelid.

"Mine."

The air buzzed hotly with the warm summer sun filling it, filling him as he laid there on top of the other, simply enjoying the sight and feel of his lover. He felt so at ease right now, so completely content and happy and satisfied. He wanted this moment to last forever.

Russia hummed softly as silvery hair was once again brushed out of his eyes.

"To what do I deserve this treatment, solnyshka?"

"Shhhhhh. Don't say anything."

Fingers left light trails over skin, much like a summer's breeze in a hidden valley. America carefully unwound the scarf, once again hushing the other when he tried to make objections. He folded it neatly and put it aside, showing his lover he did care. He then rested his lips on the other's Adam's Apple, leaving an almost non-existing kiss.

America closed his eyes and simply stayed in that position, lips slightly parted in contact with raw, broken flesh. He might as well turn to stone, so peaceful he felt. So protected by the warmth of a body considered cold and untouchable. Nurturing the slight bobbing of that little bulge when Russia swallowed, letting his fingers slide through that soft snowy hair, intertwining their bodies in the most intimate way. Russia's hands were on his back, neither reeling him in or pushing him away. Simply there, a constant presence. Like Russia had been a constant presence in the majority of his life, someone he knew would always be there, whether it be as a friend, an ally, an enemy, or now, a lover.

The world was at peace in that moment. In that meadow, there in the grass among the daisies.

And everything was how it should be.

xoxox

**I hope this is still T enough, otherwise I might have to change it to M (even though absolutely nothing happened, better be on the safe side). And I might add more chapters like this, or perhaps go even further, so maybe M is better after all. What do you guys think? **

**And now for some history.**

1) Before the Cold War, Russia and America were on quite friendly terms with each other. Not exactly friends, but something in that direction. Companions, or sharers of mutual respect.

Some examples:

- Russia aided America in the Civil War through trade and diplomacy. They were technically neutral, but Russia didn't really get along with the British Empire at that point, so they favoured the colonists.

- Russia was the only European country openly supporting the Union in the Civil War. Others (like France and England) chose to remain officially neutral.

Words:

Ivinite: Sorry  
>Solnyshka: Sunshine<p> 


	5. What haunts me

What haunts me

"Vanya."

"Nyet… Stoj…"

"Vanya. Wake up."

"Ostav' menja v pokoe…"

"Vanya!"

Russia shot up, eyes wide and panicky. His breath was coming out in pants, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead and temples.

"Chto?" he asked no one in particular while looking around frantically, completely disorientated.

"Vanya, calm down!"

A hand was placed over his chest. Russia jerked, twisting around to beat up his offender.

Someone was attacking him, someone was-!

The Russian froze once he laid his eyes upon the other. Sunny wheat-coloured locks with a funny cowlick sprouting from the top of his head. A Captain America t-shirt hardly concealing well-trained muscles and only the tiniest bit of cute pudge. Beautiful, ever-energetic eyes, that weren't exactly the colour of the sea, but also not quite the colour of the sky.

America. His lovely, stunning, sweet America. No one was attacking him in their shared bedroom.

As soon as his mind had established this fact, the tension in his arms and shoulders slipped away. The fear in his eyes died, scorching amethyst becoming light violet once more. With a shaky sigh he let himself fall back onto the mattress.

"You okay there big guy?" America asked cautiously, patting the other on his tummy.

"Da… Prosti," he said, still a little out of breath.

America lay down next to him. He cupped the other's face, forcing him to look him in the eye. Russia didn't want to see the concern written on his lover's face. He hated worrying his little sunflower.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The older nation hummed, neither accepting nor disregarding the offer. America curled up next to him, one hand resting over Russia's heart, the other playing with his snowy ashen blond hair.

"Come on, Vanya. Talking helps. Mattie always told me that, and he's usually right in these things. I promise."

Russia snorted. "You promise?"

The sunny blond nodded excitedly.

"Cross my heart and hope to die!"

Russia giggled as he pulled the other closer, nuzzling in his hair. America bent over and placed a peck on the place where his heart was calming down inside its house. At the loving action, a warm glow filled the Russian's entire being.

He sighed.

"I was dreaming about the past."

"Yeah, I figured that much out myself. Which part?"

The tall nation waited with his answer to caress his boyfriend's cheek. Those electric blues looked up at him, gaze fierce even in the dark.

"I was dreaming about my past leaders. Stalin, Lenin, Gorbachev, Peter, Ivan, Catherine…"

Although an involuntary shudder went through the nation's body, America knew the real reason for his distress was yet to come.

"Dmitry, Alexander, Yuri… All of them."

When he paused for a moment, America placed another kiss on his chest. Russia smiled absentmindedly.

"…And then there was my time under the Mongol Yoke."

Ah, there it was. Mongolia. Or the Golden Horde, or whatever Russia wanted to call his past tormentor. America had heard stories about that time, a time of suffering and fear and pain and war. Some of the scars on the tall nation's back and chest came from that time, never to recover despite them being nations. As if to remind him of that time, rubbing it into his face whenever the Slavic nation undressed. And occasionally turning his dreams into nightmares, like tonight.

"I wish I could've been there to protect you," America mumbled softly.

Russia chuckled and squeezed his shoulder.

"Impossible, little one. I was only a child back then. And you? You probably weren't even born yet."

America huffed. "Yeah? Okay, then how about this. I'll just build a time machine, go back in time, and beat some Mongolian ass!"

Russia's laughter intensified, silent rumbles travelling over his body. America could feel them, his cheek pressed to the other's torso.

"As much as I appreciate the gesture, dorogoy moy, I would prefer you did not do that."

"Why nooooooooooooooooot?" America whined.

"Because it is part of history. And history is what makes us who we are now, da? Even if it is sad some times. Who knows? Maybe if I had not met Mongolia back then, I would not be together with you now."

"What?!" America shouted indignantly, lifting his face to glare hotly at the other. "No way!"

Russia smiled, a knowing mien in his eyes.

"It could have been that way, if our history was to be altered. Or maybe we would still be at war with each other?"

"Never!" America growled, stubbornly curling in on himself. "How could I be at war with my boyfriend? That's just stupid!"

Russia suddenly grew serious.

"Oh, little one. You are so young. Who knows? We might be at war again in the future."

"Don't say that jerk!" the blond hissed, pulling the covers over him for protection from those unwanted words.

Russia absentmindedly kept stroking his lover's back, gazing up at the ceiling.

"If our bosses say we have to go to war, then we must. Even if we do not want to, it is our duty as a country to think about our people before ourselves. Even if it means we do not agree. That is our curse, Fredka."

Blue eyes peeked from under the covers.

"Why are you being all down? You're not thinking about going to war, are you?"

Russia shook his head.

"Nyet. I am merely saying it is a possibility."

America crawled back up, lying on his back to look at the ceiling as well.

"I won't let it happen. I won't let some stupid war destroy our relationship. You're my leading lady, not the villain."

Russia pinched his cheek for being called a lady, but remained solemn.

"Let us hope we will be strong enough to do that."

America grinned widely.

"Of course we will! I'm the hero after all, nothing's impossible for me!"

Russia smiled once more, rolling onto his side to gaze at the other.

"Maybe you are right little one. Maybe we will be able to do it."

America rolled over as well, so that they were now facing each other.

"Of course I'm right! I'm always right, dude! You should know that by now."

Russia captured his hand and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss on the knuckles.

"Ty menya udivlyat', zvezda moya," he murmured.

America blinked sheepishly.

"What'da ya say?"

Russia smiled.

"Nothing, lapushka. Simply that I love you."

America grinned. He inched closer and laid his head against the Russian's torso, one arm draped around his waist.

"Think you can go back to sleep now?"

Russia hummed softly, possessively (but lovingly) pulling the other closer.

"No more nightmares? No more doom-thinking?"

"Nyet, little one."

America yawned and sighed.

"G'night."

"Spokojnoj noči."

America almost instantly fell asleep while Russia caressed his golden locks.

As much as the tall nation would love to forget the ghosts that plagued him, he knew the gods often had other plans in store for their kind.

But as he felt that warm body lying beside him and heard that content snoring, he knew those were worries for the future. He should try focussing on the present for a change.

Now, everything was good.

Now, they were happy.

Now...

xoxox

Words:

Stoj: Stop  
>Ostav' menja v pokoe: Leave me alone<br>Chto?: What?  
>Vy menya udivlyat': You amaze me<br>Zvezda moya: My star  
>Lapushka: Darling<br>Spokojnoj noči: Goodnight


	6. Toy Soldiers

Toy Soldiers

**Because a guest requested it. ^J^**

**And I recommend checking out the RusAme AMV that goes with the song 'Toy Soldiers.'**

xoxox

There was one room in America's house in Washington D.C. that Russia wasn't allowed to go into. Some sort of storage room, he had called it. None of Russia's business.

Naturally, when America went out to go shopping for groceries, that was exactly the room Russia ran to.

He hadn't meant to stay there all that long. Just a quick peek and then back to the living room before his lover could come back. Yet what he found there was far too fascinating to leave alone.

America's previous flags. A bayonet with a scratch in it. A very dusty tuxedo. His old war uniforms. An actual copy of the Declaration of Independence. What seemed to be a collection of car miniatures.

The Russian was so lost in his activities that he didn't hear the front door open.

"Ivan? Are you there?"

Russia started and quickly shut the box he had been browsing through. He looked at the small object in his hand and was about to put it back when-

"What the fuck Ivan!"

The tall nation snapped his neck back so fast it would have given any normal human a whiplash. America was standing in the doorway, looking all kinds of furious.

Shit, he had forgotten to close the door behind him. He really was losing his touch as a spy.

"Get the hell out of here!"

Russia quickly scrambled to his feet, momentarily forgetting he was still holding onto something. This was the maddest he had seen the American since that one time someone burnt down a McDonald's…

The other's blue eyes fell upon his hand, and his frown increased.

"And what are you holding?! Give me that!"

America's arm shot forward so fast it made Russia's fist tighten in reflex. When the smaller nation's fingers closed around his hand with such force it could easily tear through stone walls, they heard a sickening cracking noise along with an eerie snap.

Russia's next breath-intake was shocked and shaky as he tried not to panic. Luckily, this wasn't the first time America had accidentally broken his bones, so he was already getting used to it. Yet, for some reason, the pain didn't come. Then he remembered what he had been holding.

What he wasn't used to, was the look on the other's face when his fingers opened and revealed their hidden treasure.

It was a tiny wooden toy soldier. There were so many details that it had to be hand-made, with its red coat and black hat and almost meaningful expression.

The small soldier was broken in half.

For a moment, America's expression turned so dark the ashen blond was absolutely certain he was going to beat him to a pulp.

Then it changed. Remorse and an almost painful sadness slipped into his features, made his glare plummet to the ground and his lips tremble.

Before Russia could stop him, America spun on his heels and all but ran out of the storage room.

How Russia wished America would have just hit him.

xoxox

"Fredka? Can I come in?"

When no response came, Russia softly pushed against the door and peeked inside the bedroom.

America was sitting in the middle of his bed, knees pulled to his chest, shoulders hunched and arms enveloping his legs as if hugging someone. His face was hidden from curious onlookers, and his entire figure read tense vulnerability.

Russia tip-toed over to the bed and set aside his peace-offering (a chocolate milkshake with bits of twix in it). He carefully sat down on the mattress, heart skipping a beat when America flinched further into himself at the movement.

"Fredka, I am so sorry. I should have listened to you. I was just curious, da? But I should not have snuck in behind your back. Can you forgive me?"

No reaction. America simply stayed in that position, completely curled in on himself. Russia inched closer to him, regret oozing from his very existence.

"Are you very mad?"

A short jerking up of the shoulders that could have been translated into a shrug. But Russia knew something more was up. If America was just mad at him, he would be cranky and stomping through the house and ignoring him in an overly dramatic manner. Not… this.

"I am also sorry I broke your wooden figure."

"Go away Vanya…" came a soft, broken, trembling voice, much too hesitant to be America's.

In a sudden moment of clarity, the Russian reached out and lifted the other's face. What he saw shocked him just as much as America's sudden entrance earlier that day.

Those beautiful blue eyes were wet and far too big, making him resemble a lost child. Angry red dots tainted his cheeks, as if he had been digging his nails into them. His lower lip was cut and chewed-on.

Russia instantly pulled the other close, feeling the all-overpowering need to comfort his lover well up. America tensed even more, but Russia simply held him tighter and rubbed his back.

"Please Fredka, do not be mad at me. I am sorry da?"

"Am not mad…" came that tiny voice.

As he spoke, a heavy tremble travelled through his body, and he almost choked on the ending of his sentence. Russia now understood that the other was trying to hold back his tears, as if embarrassed they were even there.

"You can cry if you want to. There is nothing to be ashamed of. We are at your home, and nobody can see you."

"But I'm not crying!" he peeped, swallowing back another sob. "I-it's silly, really. N-nothing to c-cry about. And I w-won't."

As he spoke, the trembles increased in both quantity and intensity. The sunny blond choked back a strangled gasp and buried his face in Russia's coat, hiding from the tears that weren't coming.

"Why are you sad? Are you not mad at me?"

"I'm not sad!" America suddenly yelled, pushing the other away from him. His eyebrows were scrunched together in a vain attempt to keep the tears from spilling.

"I shouldn't be sad! It's just a freakin' toy soldier! I shouldn't even have it anymore! The fuck do I care it came from back when… back when…"

He hid his face in his hands when a loud bawl final escaped.

"This is e-exactly why I d-didn't want you to go in there… I-it's just painful memories…"

Russia once more placed an arm around the shivering nation and pulled him close. America let him, shoulders slacking and pained sobs falling out of his mouth. Russia gently rocked him, stroking his hair and letting the words slip from his lips.

_Spi mladyenets, moi prekrasný,  
>bayushki bayu,<br>tikho smotrit myesyats yasný  
>f kolýbyel tvayu.<br>Stanu skazývat' ya skazki,  
>pyesenki spayu,<br>tý-zh dremli, zakrývshi glazki,  
>bayushki bayu.<em>

Gradually the restrained crying eased down into a soft hiccupping. Russia had no idea what would have gotten his lover this upset, but he knew better than to find him pathetic. He had more than enough experience with emotional breakdowns himself.

"Feel better?"

America nodded, letting out a shaky sigh.

"Can you tell me what it is you were upset about? Talking helps."

America smiled sarcastically at his own words being used against him, but it looked too forced with his red, puffy eyes.

"It's something stupid, really. I had no idea I would ever cry like a baby because of it."

"Not stupid," Russia murmured, placing a kiss on the other's forehead. "If it were you would not be so upset."

The smaller nation sighed heavily. He grabbed the two broken parts of his toy soldier and held them up to his face.

"You have your scarf to remind you of Ukraine, right?"

Russia blushed as his hand automatically shot up to touch his scarf, as if automatically having to remind himself that it was indeed still there.

"Well, I have other stuff. To remind me of… You know, of when I was younger."

"Of your time as a colony, you mean?"

America frowned stubbornly at his use of words, but nodded nonetheless.

"Yeah. Back when me and Iggy… When me and Arthur, when we still were…"

Russia made a small sound of understanding. He gave the other's shoulder an encouraging squeeze, waiting for him to continue.

"After the war, I really wanted to throw out all of this stuff. But I just couldn't, you know? Every time I tried, I just kept seeing his face. How happy he looked when he gave those things to me. I've really never seen him smile as much as he did back then. And then when I wanted independence… It broke his heart. I could see it in his face, even though he didn't want to show me. I didn't want to hurt him, but I had to. We couldn't go on like that any longer. I wasn't meant to spend my entire life as a colony. But back then he was the British Empire, and he wasn't used to disobedience. So we fought. And I won. And when I did… I felt terrible. Thrilled and overjoyed, but terrible. Because that was the first time it'd ever seen him so broken."

America chewed his lip, pausing to take in a breath.

"I still cared about him, you know. I had to break away from him, and I was glad I did, but he was still my brother. Things got really awkward between us after that. I knew he was hurt, but I couldn't comfort him. All I could think about was the future of my new country. I was a selfish bastard back then."

Russia hummed in thought.

"We are nations, koshka. We have to place our people before our own needs."

"I know. And that's what I did. But we have human emotions for a reason."

He sighed again.

"Arthur thinks I hated him all that time. I know he does. But he doesn't know I kept all this stuff. Because I couldn't throw it out, because every time I tried, I became an emotional wreck. Because his face kept popping up, and it hurt too much to think about him. I tried telling him once, that it wasn't because I hated him that I wanted independence. He slammed the door in my face. It's just too painful for him to talk about."

He carefully rolled the figurine around in his hands.

"We're friends now. But we'll never be able to go back to what we had back then. We'll never fully be brothers again. I wish I could tell him how much I regret that. But I would be lying. Because I don't, not really. Yes, I regret hurting him. But I would never regret fighting. Because…"

He choked back another involuntary sob, eyes staring off into the distance. Russia cradled him in his arms, pressed a kiss to his ear.

"Will he ever be able to forgive me Ivan? Will I ever see him smile again, just the way he used to? Without holding back, without that fucking restraining he always does? Does he still hate me for what happened?"

"I am certain he does not, sunflower," Russia spoke softly. "Even though he does not show it, I am certain part of him understands why you needed to do that. If he did not, he would not be on speaking terms with you now."

"But he'll never fully forgive me," America whispered. "The Fourth of July will always be a time of suffering for him. That topic will always be awkward for us. A-and now, I broke his gift, and I should've thrown it out a long time ago, but I didn't, and i-it's ruined…"

Russia rocked him back and forth as he broke down a second time, cooing gentle words at him and stroking his hair. His chest constricted when he was reminded of the relationship between him and his sisters, of how things would never be as simple as they were in the past. Not that the past had ever been simple, but still…

That night, when America had finally fallen asleep, Russia slipped out of the bedroom to make a quick call. He looked at the faded face of the toy soldier while the phone went over.

"Ah, Angliya? I have a request to make."

xoxox

America couldn't believe his eyes when he arrived at the World Conference. There, standing on the table in front of his seat, was the wooden soldier he knew had been broken in half. Only now, the crack was completely gone, and it looked good as new. Better even.

America quickly hid it in his pocket before anyone else could arrive (since the meeting was in his capital, he was there in time for a change). He then saw Russia waving at him from across the room, and immediately ran over to him and leapt into his arms.

"You fixed it! Thanks a bunch big guy, I owe you one!"

Russia looked over his lover's shoulder as he listened to his excited banters. There, hidden in the shadows, was England. The green-eyed nation was smiling gently, almost shyly, as he saw how happy his ex-colony was.

Russia winked at him, and England frowned.

But the smile never left his face as he turned around and snuck back out of the room.

xoxox

**Some talk about the painful parts in America's past this time, since someone pointed out I gave Russia plenty of 'breakdowns' but not America. So here it is!**

**England doesn't want America to know what he did, so that's why he didn't show himself. See it as him being a gentleman, a tsundere, or simply him being discrete or modest. He probably won't talk about it afterwards either, but at least he knows the truth now, and that makes him happy.**

[Spi mladyenets, moi prekrasný,  
>bayushki bayu,<br>tikho smotrit myesyats yasný  
>f kolýbyel tvayu.<br>Stanu skazývat' ya skazki,  
>pyesenki spayu,<br>tý-zh dremli, zakrývshi glazki,  
>bayushki bayu.]<p>

A Russian lullaby that translates into:

[Sleep, my beautiful good boy,  
>Bayushki bayu,<br>Quietly the moon is looking  
>Into your cradle.<br>I will tell you fairy tales  
>And sing you little songs,<br>But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,  
>Bayushki bayu.]<br>(Bayushki bayu is the Russian expression to lull children into sleep, spoken by a mother to her child.)


	7. You called?

You called?

**To those who celebrate the holiday: Happy Valentine's! To those who don't: have a one-shot my fellow stay-at-homers!**

xoxox

America knew it was stupid to challenge Russia to a drinking contest. He knew all too well how much the tall nation could take. Yet, when those violet eyes had turned to him with a mocking mien, those thin lips stuck on a condescending smirk, America couldn't help but defend his pride and accept the challenge. The results were… well…

"Gosh darrrnit Wussia, your hai's too sssssoft!"

Russia hummed in acknowledgment as the sunny blond let his fingers slide through those platinum locks. America had the goofiest expression possible on his face, with his grin so wide it showed all of his teeth and one eyelid drooping down due to his exhaustion.

America had spent the last ten minutes or so trying to go to the kitchen for more whiskey, but each time Russia had pushed him back down, insisting he'd had enough. By the end America didn't even need Russia's prohibition anymore, as his legs were trembling too hard to keep supporting his weight. Afterwards he'd sprawled the upper half of his body over the table, and began petting Russia's head as if it were a puppy. Good thing the Russian had a high resistance to pain, as America's movements were a bit rougher now that he didn't keep them under his full control.

Russia was quite amused by the turn of events. America usually lived on sugar-filled shakes and sodas, which often resulted in the younger nation having a sudden sugar-rush. This was a nice change of pace.

"You are a happy drunk, da?" Russia questioned, capturing the hand on his head when it began gripping a bit too tightly at his hair.

America let out an obnoxiously loud giggle, only proving the other's point.

"Damn right I am! Not like Engwand, he'sh always whiiiiiiiiiiining an' cussing an'…" America trailed off, eyes focussing and un-focussing at something that wasn't there. "Wha' were we talken' 'bout again?"

Russia smiled gently. "Time for bed Fredka."

America protested loudly as the ashen blond scooped him up in his arms. Russia mentally winced when the other tried grabbing onto his chair and splintered the wood in his grip.

"Bedtime for Alfredka~" he said in a sing-song voice, rocking his boyfriend soothingly as he carried him up the stairs.

America quickly grew tired of protesting and simply relaxed in Russia's hold, resting his head against the soft fabric of his scarf.

"Not tired…" he mumbled, even though his eyes were already closing.

Russia chuckled as he used his hip to push against the door to their shared bedroom. He murmured softly under his breath as he helped the other change (there was no way America could change into his pyjamas in this state), and tucked him in. He kissed his loved-one on the forehead and made to exit again.

"You… Yo're ain' comin'?" the younger slurred.

"I will be up in a moment, dorogoy. Sleep," Russia reassured him.

The nation made his way downstairs to do some cleaning. He tossed away the now empty bottles (one bottle of whiskey, four bottles of vodka) and tried to get rid of an old stain before giving up.

For the last hour or so, he'd been having the strangest feeling that someone was trying to call him.

Someone…

But who?

xoxox

England frantically paced around as he chanted. His cape was flowing behind him, and the circle he'd drawn was already glowing.

This time, he would definitely succeed! Or his name wasn't the United bloody Kingdom!

"Santo Rita Mita Meada Ringo Jonah Tito Marlon Jack La Toya Janet Michael Dumbledora The Explorer… Now show yourself!"

Yes! The glowing was intensifying! It was really working this time!

England crept closer to the summoning circle. Oh, he couldn't wait to show this to Norway…

A tall figure became visible. Light hair, broad chest, rather large nose, scarf, violet eyes-

Oh for God's sake, it was Russia!

The Russian giggled as he dusted off his jacket.

"Privet, Angliya. You called?"

The British nation cursed plentifully whilst Russia giggled in delight. But he was cut short as he realized he wasn't fully present… When Russia glanced down, he noticed that his feet were still standing in America's living room. It was a very odd sensation. He tried pulling up, but his feet refused to join his legs in England's basement.

"You're stuck," England commented.

Russia shot him a strained smile as he continued his attempts at bringing his feet here.

"Need help with that?" the Englishman asked after a full minute of vain pulling went by.

Russia looked at him knowingly.

"Does that mean you are inviting me into your house?"

England crossed his arms.

"I don't trust you, and you don't trust me."

"I do not trust anyone," Russia replied with a childish smile.

England rolled his eyes and continued.

"Then why would I let you into my house?"

"Because you are a gentleman, and I am a fellow nation," Russia replied smugly and without missing a beat.

They stared at each other long and hard, before the Brit finally gave an exasperated sigh.

"Fine then. I suppose since you're here, I could give you a cup of tea. Now hold still, I'll see what I can do to help."

Russia tensed only for a short moment when the Englishman carefully laid his arms around his waist, but then he told himself not to act so foolish and helped the other pull his legs out of the ground. With their combined efforts they succeeded.

"Spasiba," Russia muttered softly, eyes glinting dangerously to hide the true levels of his gratitude. It did feel awfully uncomfortable to have your legs stuck in another place.

"No problem. It's this way to the kitchen."

England grumbled sourly as he guided the unexpected guest to the ground floor of his humble abode. Russia's eyes drank in all the sights he was provided with, a habit that stuck from when he went spying- no, stalking- no… following and watching the other nations in a completely friendly manner, without any hidden purposes. Russia made himself comfortable on the couch as England went to make them some tea.

"How come you always show up when I'm summoning?" the Brit's voice sounded from the kitchen.

Russia placed his elbows on his knees and let his chin rest on his folded hands.

"I do not know, Arthur. It simply happens. Maybe you are using the wrong spell…?"

"Nonsense!" England seethed, making Russia chuckle.

The green-eyed nation returned with some Earl Grey. He handed one cup to his visitor and sat down in his favourite chair with another cup for himself. They drank for a few seconds, neither knowing what to talk about.

"Ah, I still had to thank you for that wooden soldier you made. Alfred was happy with it."

England's features softened at the recollection, before he shot a glare at Russia.

"I'm surprised he still has the damned things. Wouldn't think he kept those after…"

The Brit took a quick sip of tea to hide his unsteady voice. Russia drummed his fingers against his cheek.

"He is no longer a child, you know."

England looked up in confusion before his eyes widened.

"You can talk to him now, without getting yelled at. As men, not nations. That is, if you can drag his attention away from his videogames or hamburgers… Da, he might act like a stubborn teenager at times. But he has lived for hundreds of years, just like you and me."

"You're wrong."

Russia smiled as he waited for England to elaborate.

"Not about the part of him growing up… I know bloody well he's no longer the little colony we found in the wilderness. But it's… painful, trying to talk about_ it_. In the beginning, neither of us wanted to. I was too stubborn to admit I missed him, and he had his hands full with the founding of his own country. After that… It took us a long time before we could talk again. And even then, that topic was always carefully avoided. It took even longer for us to talk outside of meetings, to become something akin to friends. And, well… There were a couple of times, I really regret this ever happened, but… I got a bit drunk – all right,_ really_ drunk – and showed up at his house. Crying for him to come back to me, to call me Engwand again like he used to, to be mine once more. Not very becoming of a gentleman at all. I was so stupid. It only made the topic even more awkward."

Russia remained silent, even when tears started forming in the corners of England's eyes.

"I still don't know if we can ever be like that again. He was so trusting back then, always came to me when he needed something or found something new. I was amazing in his eyes, and he was my little angel. God, how I miss those days…"

England's voice died, the nation lost in the forest of reminiscence. He seemed to have completely forgotten the presence of his guest. The tea was going cold as salty tears leaked into his cup.

The island nation was startled out of his sad thoughts when his cup was gently taken from his hands. He snapped his head back, eyes widening when he realized he'd told all this to Russia.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, you didn't have to listen to all that-" England stopped talking when Russia pulled him out of the chair and into his arms.

The blond stiffened as he felt those big arms wrap themselves around his body. It felt like being hugged by a bear, soft and safe but with the danger of getting your bones crushed. And Russia wasn't exactly the warmest nation on earth.

"I know how you feel, Angliya," the Russian whispered into his ear. England remained completely still, not daring to breathe. "The past can be a painful thing, especially for us nations. That is why we have to live in the present." He briefly pulled his head back to smile at the Englishman, a real smile this time. "Alfred reminded me of that."

They stayed in that awkward position for quite a while. England was too afraid to push the other off, but he did calm down from his previous distress. Who would have thought that Russia had the empathic capabilities to comfort someone like this?

After some time, Russia let go.

"I mean it Arthur. You can talk with him. Just try it. I will take my leave now."

And with that the Slavic nation finished his tea, waved sheepishly at his host, and left for the basement. England stared after him, dumbstruck.

As soon as he regained the ability to move his muscles, England shot towards his cellphone. He dialled the first number that was on the list and waited for it to go over.

"Bonjour, c'est France!"

"Francis!" England hissed, feverishly checking if his guest was really gone. "You won't believe it, but Russia just hugged me! HE HUGGED ME!"

France chuckled mysteriously.

"Ah, Angleterre. Why are you so surprised? Is it not you who always said- what was it again…"

England just knew he could hear the other smirk.

"Miracles do happen."

Somewhere at the other end of the earth, a certain Russian smiled to himself as he patted his boyfriend's back, while the other was vomiting furiously into the toilet.

Night well spent~


	8. Dear Diary

Dear Diary

**Wanted to try something different this time around. Oh, and there are a few minor sexual innuendos, but not so bad it should be rated M, I think. Please tell me if it is though. And there will also be really fluffy fluff-fluff, so don't worry. ;)**

xoxox

**Gilbert's journal**

**x day, x month, place: Ottawa, Canada**

**9.07 AM – The bathroom**

Me and Birdie were brushing our teeth. He uses maple flavoured toothpaste, I use mint. Do not ask me how he can handle the stuff, he's just sweet like that. ;)

Gilbird tried to join the fun, but sadly birds have no teeth. I let him take a shower with us, and then Kuma got jealous. So we ended up taking a bubble bad, all four of us. And we hadn't even had breakfast yet :D

**9.45 AM – The kitchen**

Birdie's making pancakes. He ALWAYS makes pancakes. Good thing I love 'em too! ^v^

**9.46 AM – The living room**

Got kicked out of the kitchen. :( Wanted to sneak up on him and steal a kiss, but he didn't really appreciate that I tried taking a picture as well. IT WAS JUST TO PROVE OUR LOVE TO THE WORLD, MATTHEW. But I'll go apologize later. I don't like it when he's mad at me. He's too cute to be mad.

**11.24 AM – The bathroom**

We made up. And by made up, I mean made up all the way, if you know what I'm saying. ;D

No, but seriously. For a guy that shy he's incredibly good at making up with me. If I didn't know any better, I'd get him to be mad at me a lot more often. Still like it more when he's not mad though.

**11.59 AM – The garden**

West just called. Wanted to know where I keep the rope.

So I told him: "Sorry bro, but I took it with me to Matt's! If you want to get kinky with Feli that badly, you'll have to wait."

And you know what he did next? YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID? He got all flustered and started stuttering, and then he hung up on me!

I know my little brother too well. Ah, they grow up so fast. :')

But seriously though, guy needs to buy his own rope. I need mine too often. XP

**12.35 PM – The living room**

Birdie just did the cutest thing ever!

I was talking about one of my sleepovers with Francy-pants and Tonio, and Lizzy just showed up at one point. Then I described to Matt how Francis was really drunk and tried to make out with her, but she totally hit him up the head with a frying pan.

Wanna know what Matthew said next? He said: "Oh right, aren't you and Elizabeta childhood friends?"

At first I didn't expect any hidden meaning behind his words, so I just said: "Yeah, that's right! But I don't know why Francis would wanna kiss her, she kisses like a dude! Then again, Francy-pants is in love with a dude himself, so I guess that makes sense."

AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT? Birdie got really quiet and started playing around with his coffee, and then I asked him "What's wrong?" and he was like "Nothing…" But I just knew something was up, you know!

And then I realized… Matt was jealous! It just made me swell with pride, or something. With… yeah, let's just say it was pride.

Anyway, I then told him nobody could kiss as good as he can, and I paid him A LOT of compliments, and from one thing came another…

So he's totally waiting upstairs for me right now, but I just had to write this down first.

This day just keeps getting better and better, my awesome journal!

**14.57 PM – The bathroom**

Mein Gott. I…

Mein Gott.

**15.03 PM – The bathroom**

Okay. So, I am a complete idiot. Wanna know why?

We were just lying in his bed, you know, cuddling and all the good stuff. But then I looked at him, and I don't know, he was just beautiful, you know? Still a bit sweaty, eyes big and shining, and…

I couldn't help myself.

"Ich liebe Dich."

That's what I said. I've wanted to tell him that for the longest of times, and it just sorta slipped out of me. But you know what? Birdie didn't understand.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

And he had this really excited look on his face, as if he sorta knew, but wasn't sure or something.

And what did I do?

I chickened out. Instead of finally telling him what I feel about him, what I've been feeling for a couple of months now, I couldn't say it. I mean, what a fucking retard am I?! I love him more than I ever loved Roderich, heck, I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him, so WHY CAN'T I JUST TELL HIM THAT?

I'm sorry Birdie. I'm a coward. Please forgive me.

**20.24 PM – The garden**

God has seen my stupidity and has come down to kick my ass, that is save me.

**23.38 PM – The bedroom**

Okay, that last entry was weird. But I have a very good explanation for that.

I'm just too fucking happy to spout anything but gibberish.

Okay, so this is what happened. After I chickened out on confessing to Birdie, I guess I looked a bit down. I must have, since Matt constantly tried to cheer me up. I told him I was fine, I was just a bit out of it. But my Birdie doesn't give up that easily.

So when it was time for dinner, you know what that awesomely sweet nation did for me? He made us a romantic dinner for two by candlelight. Yeah, that definitely lifted my spirits. But that's not the end of it. Oh, no.

The mood was really amazing, we had some nice background music, we talked and laughed and ate some great food, and did I already mention he looked absolutely stunning?

Anyway, at one point he smiled, like this special smile and he said:

"Prussie, je t'aime."

And at that moment, I froze. I mean, you don't get to be friends with France without knowing what "Je t'aime" means. So I looked up at him and I was gaping really dumbly, and he giggled and caressed my cheek.

"There is this thing called a dictionary, you know."

That's what he said. Apparently, because I wouldn't tell him what "Ich liebe Dich" means, the sucker looked it up himself. And now he was confessing to me what I had wanted to confess to him, but couldn't.

Would you believe me if I told you I could have died a happy man at that moment?

And no, I didn't cry. I'm just allergic to feelings okay? It's just that, when he said all that soppy shit afterwards (which I'm not gonna tell you, because that's way too intimate for your ears), my eyes got a bit stingy, causing them to overflow. Not crying at all. Nope.

Anyway. Me and Birdie are finally a real couple now. Like, we already were before, but now we REALLY are going steady. I already called Antonio and Francis to shout in their ears, and they were happy for me. WELL THEY SHOULD BE. I was the only one left not going steady yet! (Again, it isn't going steady when you haven't confessed. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my traditions every now and then.)

He's asleep now. I can't help but stare at him.

When did I get to deserve such a sweet little angel?

xoxox

"Gilbert?"

The Prussian closed his journal and glanced over his shoulder.

"Yeah, Birdie?"

Canada patted the empty space next to him, trying to find the albino's figure without having his glasses to aide him.

"Come back to bed, mon amour."

Gilbert couldn't keep the grin from his face after hearing his lover say that. He quickly turned off the flashlight he'd been using in order to try and keep the other from waking up, and tip-toed over to the bed. He quickly slid under the covers and crawled over to the blond, heart swelling with glee as the Canadian immediately closed the distance and pulled him into an embrace. He loved the feeling of the nation snuggling up against his chest, of feeling warm and safe and happy.

"Goodnight, Gil."

Prussia kissed him tenderly on top of his head.

"You too, mein Liebling."

xoxox

Words:

Ich liebe Dich: I love you  
>Je t'aime: I love you<br>Mon amour: My love  
>Mein Liebling: My beloved<p> 


End file.
